


it's in your blood (just to say goodbye)

by yanak324



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Gendry tries to make things right, Love Confessions, Making Up, Post Season 8 Episode 4, Sibling Bonding, The Hound dropping truth bombs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 19:58:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18763162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yanak324/pseuds/yanak324
Summary: It strikes him once more how foolish he had been to propose marriage, like offering a wild wolf a cage. He won't make that mistake again.Before Arya departs for King's Landing, she and Gendry reach an understanding. Post-Season 8, Episode 4: The Last of the Starks.





	it's in your blood (just to say goodbye)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm reserving judgment until the show ends. My muse, however, is not as patient, and she just really, really wants to give Gendry a chance to make it right; and for Arya to open herself up to the possibility. I hope the writers do as well. I don't own the characters, and the title is taken from a band I love very very much. Enjoy :)

It doesn’t sit well with her; her rejection of him. 

He doesn’t linger for too long as she commences target practice and she can’t blame him. 

But she misses him all the same.

It doesn’t make sense to her – and yet it does, because of course he would proclaim his love for her and propose marriage while half drunk and riding the high of winning. 

Impulsivity is something they used to have in common. She’s different now though, not the same girl as before. She had naively thought that of all people, Gendry would understand. 

But he doesn’t appear to, and Arya isn’t upset. Now that she’s had a moment to absorb it, she realizes just what it means for him to be recognized as a true Baratheon heir.

He finally has a name, a home – a place in this world to call his own. It’s all he’s ever wanted. She knows that, much as she knows that he’s earnest and true in his confession, that he wants her by his side, and maybe she wants that as well but…

No. 

Arya Stark had a family. She had a home - a place in this world to call her own. Cersei Lannister took it all away. Until she shuts the Queen’s eyes forever, there will be no peace for her, no rest…no room for proclamations of the heart. 

She stands by her decision, but her lips burn from where Gendry had kissed her. Her body remembers a warmth it had only gotten a taste of some nights ago. There’s something brewing in her chest that she can’t quell. 

She puts three more arrows into the target before realizing that the foreign emotion that plagues her is doubt. 

xxx

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Gendry doesn’t know why the Hound is here nor why he’s choosing to get drunk only steps away from where Arya undressed for him less than three eves ago. 

“A big stupid whore is what you are, boy. Even with that title.”

He feels a twinge of that familiar Baratheon rage, but he won’t be bated.

He’s a Lord now, or at least he will be, unless all goes to hell. He must practice restraint, or so he supposes, given all he’s heard about Lords and Ladies, and how they should behave. 

“Asking her to marry? You’d have better luck askin’ me to marry ya.” 

Something about that makes the Hound laugh like Gendry has never heard the ugly bastard laugh before. It’d be amusing if it weren’t at his expense, and it makes Gendry grit his teeth. 

He’d never say it, but his unwanted companion makes a whole lot of sense, and the regret threatens to choke him.

“You’re not my type,” Gendry spits back instead, and concentrates on shaping the dragon glass in front of him. 

What’s left of the troops rides out tomorrow, and he might as well make himself useful and equip them with what remains of their reserve. Steel is tough to come by, but dragon glass, that they’ve got in piles. 

“I didn’t think Ladies were your type either.” 

The Hound snorts, and it’s the last straw really. 

“It wasn’t about the bloody title,” Gendry abandons the blade and turns around. Whatever trace of self-control he had disappears as white-hot rage surges up his spine.

He’d really like to hit something now. He would start with the Hound but he’d also like to live long enough to perhaps make things right with Arya. 

“I was lookin’ for her before that. I had to tell her I-“

“Well why don’t you, boy?” The Hound’s expression is emotionless but sharp, too sharp for someone who has drunk nearly a full skin of wine. 

“I already did,” Gendry deflates, his entire body sagging as he leans against the work bench and looks down at the floor, “she didn’t say it back.”

He knows exactly how childish he sounds, and fully expects the Hound to call him on it, but he can’t help it.

He told her how he felt about her and she didn’t repay him in kind. He might be an illiterate bastard with not a penny to his name, but he isn’t blind. He knows what he saw in her eyes that night, same look he saw right before she kissed him and then broke his heart. 

“Not that, you stupid twat. Did ya tell her that you were sporting a hard on for her as soon as you set foot in Winterfell?”

Oh…

_Seven hells._

He really is an idiot.

xxx

Arya catches her reflection in the bucket of water and begrudgingly her thoughts go to Gendry.

He’d called her beautiful.

She tilts her head to the side, examines the ripples in the water as they form the shape of her head, the curve of her nose, the small roundness of her lips. 

Is she beautiful? 

Arya has never thought of herself that way. No, beautiful was always reserved for Sansa, for their Aunt Lysa, the Tully women.

As a young girl, Arya much preferred compliments about her sparring skills to her appearance. 

Now though? She doesn’t need anyone to compliment her on her fighting prowess. She is nearly revolted by the amount of praise bestowed upon her since she murdered the leader of the dead. 

But if she were to be honest with herself, well and truly honest, she doesn’t altogether loathe that Gendry called her beautiful, that he told her he loves her.

Nobody has ever said that to her, at least not in the way Gendry had meant it. She only wishes he understood why she had to turn down his proposal. 

He may never but that’s her burden to bear, not his. 

“Searching for answers in the water?” 

Sansa’s question catches Arya only a little off guard, and she’s good at hiding it. 

She turns to look at her sister, who sits by the window knitting. It strikes Arya so suddenly, so sharply, that if Gendry wanted a lady, he had asked the wrong sister…

She shouldn’t care as much as she does, and yet… 

“That’d be stupid,” Arya quips back but there’s no bite to it. It’s perhaps here that she’s most likely to let her guard down. Here with her beautiful sister whose ladyhood permeates her very aura. 

It isn’t fair to think that way. Sansa is not that girl anymore, and neither is Arya.

She doesn’t need validation, doesn’t need any reinforcement from anyone else. 

The House of Black and White saw to that. 

_All I know is that you’re beautiful, and I love you_

“You know,” Sansa’s voice is different, more wistful and softer, “there’s nothing wrong with wanting things.” 

And that’s the crux of it, really. 

How does she tell Sansa that any want, any desire she had was beaten out of her in Braavos, extinguished along with the bits of her identity that she almost couldn’t salvage. 

She filled that void with vengeance, with the promise of completing her list, and for now, that’s the only want she can focus on. 

But even a fool can see that Sansa is in mourning, and her very presence in Arya’s chambers, let alone any words she speaks to her, are more so for Sansa’s benefit than Arya’s. 

It’s testament to how strong their bond has become that Arya’s first instinct is no longer to goad her sister, but rather to offer comfort, support. As dangerous as this next battle will be for all those marching South, what’s more dangerous is being left behind. 

It’s the second time in so many days that Arya feels that twinge of doubt again. Her course has been mapped out for years, and she’s never questioned it, not once, not until now. 

_None of it will be worth anything if you’re not with me_

The words echoing somewhere in the depths of her mind propel her forward until she’s standing in front of her sister. 

Their difference in height puts Arya almost at eye level with Sansa and she’s glad for it. She doesn’t want to make a big show of what she says next.

“You are the future of House Stark.” 

If Sansa is surprised, she doesn’t give it away, but her blue eyes shine in a way Arya hasn’t seen in so long. It warms her from the inside out. 

“But don’t do what Father did. Don’t let duty come before your own happiness.”

Sansa smirks at that, looking down at the half-finished knitting in her hands, “Robb didn’t, and look what happened.” 

Arya knows better than anyone what her brother’s choices have meant for their family. In many ways, he had been the catalyst that set her on this road of vengeance, but Arya has made peace with that.

It doesn’t have to be that way for Sansa, and she needs to know that.

“Well, we both know Robb wasn’t always the sharpest.” 

It’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, especially of their eldest brother, but it’s also something that’s rooted between them. A piece of their history, of their family, that speaks to more than just The Freys’ betrayal. 

There will never be another who understands her the way Sansa does, that knows the pain Arya has felt.

_So be with me. Be my wife_

She shoves that thought away, because it’s not worth it. Her path has been set in stone. Sansa’s doesn’t have to be. 

“What I am trying to say, dear sister, is that I didn’t stick the ice king with the pointy end, so you can wither away with needle point and ration lists keeping you company for the rest of your days.” 

When Sansa narrows her eyes, it’s clear Arya has hit a nerve. Yet, that Tully fire burns low as her sister assesses her keenly. 

“Perhaps when you return, you can advise me on which noble lord would be best suited to keep me company.” 

It’s not a coincidence that Arya thinks Sansa is the smartest person she knows. It’s one of those truths that’s never wavered, and it doesn’t now. It takes a certain level of cunning to be so subtle and yet somehow also straightforward. 

Her sister is going to be the greatest leader the North has ever seen. Arya will see to it that whatever happens in King’s Landing will allow for that. 

“I don’t think that’s my area of expertise.” 

Sansa softens at that, but not completely, not enough to make Arya feel like she accepts her words. 

“No, I suppose it isn’t." Arya half-expects her to end with that, but of course, her sister has never done what Arya expected her to, not really.

“But you are good at surviving, and you’d be well served to remember that.”

It’s the sternest thing Sansa has said tonight, and for the first time, Arya feels that familiar twinge of irritation bubble up. She opens her mouth to retort but is interrupted by a faint knocking on the door. 

Sansa’s eyebrows raise a bit, but Arya is not the least bit surprised. She had hoped to avoid any more goodbyes, but it seems the Seven have other plans for her. 

There’s only one person who would be stupid enough to seek her out tonight.

xxx

He’d thought about waiting for her in the stables but that hadn’t felt right. 

Whether it’s the promise of his new station or something else guiding him, Gendry ultimately finds himself in front of Arya’s chambers, taking a deep breath before knocking on the heavy wooden door. 

There’s no guard perched outside – perhaps a result of their massive loss, but more likely because of all the people who need protection in Winterfell, Arya Stark is not one of them. Gendry isn’t sure whether to be relieved or nervous. 

They’ll be well and truly alone in a moment, at least he hopes so. Just him, Arya and the words that hang between them. 

_Any lady would be lucky to have you_

The bit of commotion on the other side of the door should be his first indication that his plans are foiled, but it’s only when Arya opens the door and Gendry sees Lady Stark of Winterfell standing curiously behind her sister that he realizes just how well and truly fucked he is. 

“Lady Sansa, Arya.” He immediately bows, hands naturally clasping behind his back. 

“Lord Baratheon.” 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that title, especially not when it falls from the lips of someone as authoritative and imposing as the Lady of Winterfell. 

Still, there’s something of a sparkle in Sansa’s eye, and when she looks over at Arya, Gendry spots the slight tilt of her lips. 

He can’t see Arya’s expression, just her profile, which remains stoic as ever. He is certain there is an entire conversation playing out between the two siblings, which he’s not privy to it.

“He’s not a lord yet.” Arya says eventually, and he knows it’s not a jab, doesn’t even interpret it so. Sansa doesn’t seem to either, but she does narrow her gaze, which never wavers from her sister’s face. 

“Not yet, but I trust our troops will be victorious in King’s Landing. Then, it will be made official.” 

He doesn’t take offense that they are discussing him as though he is not there. He knows better than to interrupt any discussion between two siblings – his time with the Heddles taught him that. 

It’s still curious though. Whatever he interrupted had clearly been a charged exchange. 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there, won’t we?”

“Yes,” Sansa nods, “ _we_ will.” 

The emphasis she puts on we isn’t lost on him, neither is the subtle tick of Arya’s jaw. It’s the only response she gives and it's a clear indication of her displeasure.

The ensuing stalemate reminds Gendry of trying to bend a particularly stubborn piece of metal to his will. 

He’s honest to Gods about to clear his throat, if only to remind them that the door to Arya’s chamber is still ajar and anyone can walk past, when Sansa moves forward unexpectedly.

Gendry preemptively steps aside to let her pass.

“Be well.” She says in passing to Arya, and then acknowledges him with a nod. 

He nods back as she passes, and then watches her disappear down the hall. A moment later, he hears the open and shut creak of the door, and that’s when he pokes his head back into Arya’s room, silently asking for entry. 

She motions him inside, and while she shuts the door behind him, Gendry scans the room.

This part of the castle has been miraculously untouched by the battle. He’s never been in royal chambers before but he imagined it to be less austere, cozier in some way. 

There are a few logs of wood burning in the fireplace, but their heat doesn’t reach the entire room. A large, thick fur is draped over the bed in the corner, but the floor is otherwise stone and bare.

It doesn't seem like Arya has spent much time here since she's been back, and it shows. 

“Well, you’ve gone and done it now.” 

Gendry turns around to look at her, and the sight that greets him would make him smile were it not for the blankness of her expression. 

Her arms are crossed over her chest, hip jutting out just a tad. It reminds him so much of the Arya before, the one who took every opportunity to irk and annoy him, the one who fought for him when no one else would. 

“Done what?” 

“Sansa,” Arya nudges over her shoulder, “I’m only relieved I am leaving in a few hours, so I don’t have to deal with her probing questions about why the future Lord of Storm’s End is showing up at my door at odd hours of the night.” 

“So, you really are leaving.” 

It’s a dumb thing to say, and he thinks if the circumstances were different, Arya would make a show of pointing that out, but she doesn’t now. 

“Yes, I am.” 

Gendry watches her cross the room to the small table by the window, where she starts to carefully fold the few possessions she’s taking with her into her satchel.

Suddenly, he feels at a loss. He knows there’s nothing he can do to stop her. He’s seen that determination before, most recently when she slid her tunic and breeches off, and told him to undress himself. 

Thoughts of that night remind him that he’s here for a reason. It’s not to dissuade her from going, but perhaps to convince her that there’s something worth coming back for. 

“Last night, I couldn’t find you at the feast.” 

“I know, you made that very clear when you _did_ find me.” 

She doesn’t turn around to look at him, not yet. Gendry thinks it might be better that way. 

“No, you don’t know.”

She stills, her back ramrod straight, and he wonders if he’s nicked a nerve. 

“You couldn’t possibly know, because I didn’t tell you.”

He takes a few steps towards her; it seems a little strange to be so far away from her with what he wants to say. Arya turns around and suddenly he’s in the same space as her, and she’s not stepping away and neither is he. It occurs to him yet again just how small she is. 

How that much ferocity and determination is packed into so little a frame. It strikes him once more how foolish he had been last night, proposing marriage, like offering a wild wolf a cage… 

“Tell me what?” 

He nearly misses her words; they’re said with such quite reserve. 

“Tell you that I loved you as a bastard, that I love you as a smith, and I will love you as a Lord or as whatever I become when this war is over.“ 

“Gendry” 

She says his name more like an exhale of frustration than anything else. He watches her gray eyes flicker to the floor in an act of defeat, or something else, and he cannot bear it. 

He doesn’t want to change her or ask more of her than she is willing to give, but he also can’t walk away until he’s said his peace. 

“And I’m sorry, Arya. I’m sorry about how I proposed to you. I had just been dealt the shock of my life – to think a lowly bastard from Flea Bottom given an entire castle – and I couldn’t make sense of it all, couldn’t make sense of this fortune I’d gotten, and all I could think was-“

He pauses then, because he needs to get this right. Needs to choose words that will resonate, that will put that expression he saw when he first told her about getting legitimized back on her face. 

“All I could think about was you. It’s all that’s been on my mind since you walked into the smithy demanding a spear. Hells, it’s probably what’s been on my mind since the moment I knew I was going to Winterfell.” 

Gendry takes her silence as an invitation and steps forward, reaching for her hand. Arya doesn’t protest, but she also doesn’t come closer, teetering on the brink of decision. He makes the choice for her, twining their fingers together and guiding her to him until he can feel her breath against his chest. 

“It’s always been you, Arya. I would take you in any way you’d let me, because I don’t want anyone else. There _is_ no one else. Just you.” 

He exhales then, releasing a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. He feels unburdened in a way that he hadn’t before, because regardless of how this all works out, at least he’s laid it all bare. And he did it right. 

“I’m not the same girl I was when you left me, Gendry.” 

“I know that. You think I am the same boy that you knew back then? We have both changed, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know who you are now.” 

He doesn’t panic when she rips her hand away and puts distance between them. He knew this wouldn’t be without its challenges. Arya is rarely predictable. 

“That’s the point, though. You couldn’t possibly know me now, not after what I’ve done and what I’ve seen…” 

Gendry is honestly so tired of this façade she lives behind. Everything she did had been for survival, he is certain of that, because he is certain of _her_. No one who fights to live is beyond redemption, least of all, the woman before him. Someone who has lost so much and emerged on the other end stronger. 

“You mean to say that I don’t know the Arya who refused to hide in the crypts, who insisted on fighting alongside her people? The same one who took down at least a dozen wights all by herself-“ there’s an almost imperceptible shift of her eyebrows, “yes – Ser Davos told me how you fought, but he didn’t need to, because I _know._ You think your time away has changed you beyond recognition? Erased who you were when we met? You returning home is proof that it didn’t.” 

This time he doesn’t reach for her hand. Instead, he risks his fingers to settle his hands on her shoulders and look her straight in the eye as he says, “you are Arya Stark of Winterfell. Protector of the Seven Realms. Slayer of the Undead. One of the greatest warriors Westeros has ever seen, and I love you.” 

There’s a fire burning through him now, because Arya is not pulling away and she doesn’t look frustrated. If anything, she looks like she’s weighting out her options, contemplating. 

He so badly wants her to decide in his favor. 

“I was wrong to ask you to be my Lady. I know what that implies and I know that’s not who you are, but I will not apologize for wanting you to be by my side, I won't.” 

When she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, he’s certain it’s not intentional. Yet, it takes everything in him not to kiss her right then and there. He won’t though. He wants their next kiss to mean something, so he gives her space instead; time to absorb his words while he catches his breath. 

This may be the most words he’s ever spoken to anyone in one fell swoop, and of course it would be to this girl, nay to this _woman_ , who has been the only constant – and thorn in his side – ever since he discovered who she really was. 

Gendry almost misses when Arya finally speaks. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to how temperate she is now, but it forces him to listen, and he does. 

“I have a list.” 

“I know.” 

“I may not survive King’s Landing.” 

“But if you do?” 

He doesn’t want to think about the alternative. 

Arya expels a heavy sigh and takes an unexpected step forward. It almost feels like she’s touching someone else when her hand reaches out to cradle his cheek.

Gendry leans in anyway, greedily taking what she has to offer, because he’s well aware that it might be a while before they're close like this again, and he doesn't want to waste it. 

“I suppose Storm’s End is a shorter ride from King’s Landing than Winterfell.” 

She says it without a trace of humor, but there’s something lighter in the way she looks at him, something shining like hope, and Gendry can’t help but smile at her. Feeling emboldened, he draws her in until he can rest his forehead against hers again. 

She exhales again and this time, it's a little less heavy, a little like before. 

“And I suppose I do love you, you big, blubbering idiot.” 

He doesn’t even try to defend himself, because her words are quite possibly the sweetest insult that’s ever been bestowed upon him. 

“So I've been told many times.” 

“Well you are. Don’t you expect me to call you Lord Baratheon, you hear me?” 

“Never…can I kiss you now?” 

“Have you needed permission in the past?” 

It’s his turn to cradle her cheek and pull that bottom lip between his own. It’s his turn to swallow her exhale as she kisses him back, curious tongue sweeping along the seam of his mouth, seeking entry. 

He gives it to her and lets her take and take until his lungs burn, and his body grows warm, and she’s pressed so close to him, Gendry isn’t sure where he ends and she begins.

“Stay with me.” 

Her request is soft, her eyes even softer, and he nods, for there’s nothing more he can say now, that he _wants_ to say.

He takes her hand and guides her to the bed instead. They don’t say much of anything else for the rest of the night. 

xxx

Arya leaves at dawn without waking him. If this is the last time she lays eyes on Gendry, she wants to remember him like this: naked, content, smiling in his sleep while covered by furs that have kept the Stark family warm for generations. 

_You could be my family_

The seed of doubt she had inside her has sprouted into something she doesn’t think she can control if she sees his brilliant blue eyes once more or hears him say I love you.

No, she cannot do that, and so she leaves without saying goodbye, but when she tells the Hound she doesn’t plan on coming back, for the first time, it’s not Death that she sees on the other end. 

It’s a castle, and crashing waves, and the sigil of a Stag against a field of gold. 

And she recalls Sansa's words… 

_but you are good at surviving_

And Gendry's...

_Protector of the Seven Realms_

And she remembers that she’s Arya Stark of Winterfell, and she is going to live. 

xxx


End file.
